Collared
by Megrh08
Summary: In your world there were two brothers, hardened by fire and blood, that saved the world despite the best efforts of Heaven and Hell. Their calloused hands pulled Earth back from the hellfire it would surely have fallen into, and they lived to fight another day. In my world, though, it was much different. AU: Earth ended, in all ways that count. Humans are slaves to them. Dean/Cas
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First Supernatural story! The inspiration behind this is that I've read a lot (a LOT) of fanfics where angels are pets or slaves, but I don't remember any where the angels' and demons' takeover was successful and the world was allowed to end, making humans the slaves. In my opinion that's a lot more likely, since they're pretty badass.**

**Reminders: I do not own the characters or the show. I wish I did.**

**Reviews are much appreciated, and will probably inspire me to post faster :D yay blackmail!**

There are many worlds like ours, laid over each other like scraps of delicate silk, touching but never blending. These worlds are similar but vastly different as well. Pivotal choices were made differently there, shaping the world in ways that look strange to our eyes.

In your world there were two brothers, hardened by fire and blood, that saved the world despite the best efforts of Heaven and Hell. Their calloused hands pulled Earth back from the hellfire it would surely have fallen into, and they lived to fight another day.

In my world, though, it was much different.

-

1

In your world, (and this is the primary difference, I believe) the angel Castiel was ordered to save Dean Winchester from Hell. In this world, that task fell to another. One who did not fight with them, who did not love humanity.

In this world, although the Winchesters still fought tooth and nail, their efforts were not enough, and the planet fell to the hosts of Heaven. The world ended, you might say, and yet...there has always been a reluctance, built into the fabric of existence by God himself, for everything to truly finish. Most everyone was killed, yes, but some lived on. Humanity crawled into holes like the animals they evolved from, and those monkeys in the mud somehow survived.

This went against the angel's plans, though, and many of the surviving humans were found and slaughtered. Eventually, inevitably, a way was found for human's stubborn clinging to life to yield a profit, and the hunting of humans died out almost entirely. Well, at least hunting for maiming or killing. They were still hunted for the use of their bodies.

At its peak, there were 6 ½ billion humans on planet Earth. Now there are millions, maybe. All are slaves.

Impossibly, the Winchesters survived the "cleansing", and both lived to see the horror that came next. They were captured, one winter's night in the deserts outside Phoenix. Their stolen car had run out of gas in the desolate wasteland, with no way to keep going. They walked thru the night, constellations wheeling through the heavens until dawn broke at last. The angels who found them were not kind to them- after all, they knew who the brothers were and what they had meant in the war.

They were almost killed on sight.

They survived.

Sam was sold first, the novelty of an ex-half demon more appealing than an escapee from the Pit. Dean didn't know who Sam was sold to. There was no way to contact him, and no way to get him back.

Dean was in the slave's pens for another three months, every day an agony of wondering and worrying about Sam's fate. Then, on a Thursday, he was sold.

-

Slaves were kept sedate with a careful cocktail of medications, infused in the food they were given. Sam and Dean had opted for starvation at first, but when they woke up in the infirmary a few days after they had made that heroic decision, the point was moot; they had each been given the standard sedatives while unconscious, and they had no fight left after that.

They ate the food given to them, although it could hardly be called food, and slept on the concrete floor in stained clothing with no complaint. Indeed, they hardly noticed it.

Neither brother had noticed that much when Sam had been sold, their tired minds wrapped in cotton wool. Some part of Dean must have noticed though, because he hadn't spoken nearly as much after his brother had been taken.

When Dean was led none-too-gently out of his pen and forced to shower, he decided with detached interest that he was probably going to be sold. Only those with a definite or prospective buyer got showers, and as the stern angel Warden handed him a scratchy towel and a new set of clothes, he broke a month-long silence to ask one question: "Who?"

The Warden didn't even spare him a glance, let alone a response. Dean dressed in the worn jeans, which were slightly too snug around the hips for his liking, and pulled on the plain white t shirt. No shoes for slaves, and despite the chill still plain in the spring morning, he was given no jacket either.

He watched his feet with a tired fascination as he was herded to the front room. It was strange to see his skin so pale and clean, and he was still heavily drugged, so he was very distracted when he heard a rough voice say, "Is this him?"

"Yes," the Warden replied. The stranger's voice humphed, and Dean's drug-addled mind only thought to look up once the man had already turned around and started walking away.

He saw strong shoulders in a beige trenchcoat that was slightly too big for the vessel of the angel. Tousled dark hair and what looked like suit pants. He (for it was definitely male) walked with stiff shoulders, showing off the common angel attitude that Dean would have described as "stick up his ass" if his thoughts were at all coherent.

Right now, though, Dean's gaze returned to his feet, so small on the tiled floor. He felt the Warden tug him to a halt and snap a thin collar around his neck, runes flashing as it closed. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he realized that he had been sold.


	2. Chapter 2

2

The first coherent though to break through the fog of Dean's muddled thoughts was the fact that this angel had such a _sinful_ voice. I mean, really, Dean thought, how are you expected to be obedient when you've got a new Master whose vocal cords sound like they've been aged in whiskey and gravel?

Dean had never been at all into guys, ever, but he hadn't had sex in a _very_ long time. Months, at least, maybe longer. Definitely longer. And after that long, anything vaguely interesting sounded great to his groin.

If Dean had truly been himself, he would have rebelled instantly and forcefully against the idea of anyone being his 'Master', but he had been made complacent, and the effects took a few days to wear off, if the Master of a slave decided to let him have his own mind. Due to the violent nature of an owned human, very few Masters let them remember who they were.

"I won't be needing this," the angel was saying to the Warden. Dean looked up. The Warden had been offering a plastic bag of dark reddish powder, and looked almost scandalized that it had been refused.

"Are you sure, sir? I've been looking after this one for months. He's…well, he's got a temper. Best to be safe, okay?" and without taking any heed of the protests of the scruffy angel, the Warden handed him the bag and the receipt for Dean.

The angel hardly reacted, but the corners of his mouth tightened and his gaze became, if possible, even more steely. He turned without another word and walked past where his new slave was standing cowed, gazing once more at his feet and the patterns he was tracing on the tile with his bare toes.

The door opened, and Dean looked up as he felt a foreign breeze on his skin, the first whisper of the world outside that he had experienced in months. The air was fresh outside, much better than the air even in the front of the shop. The slave pens had been much worse.

He struggled to drag his mind together, and as the person he used to be crept back to him, he shuffled closer to the open door.

The Warden at the counter behind Dean shifted nervously, hoping that the angel Castiel wouldn't be foolish and let Dean just run out into the street. He was probably too drugged to get far, but still. That one had been very hard to keep tame; it had taken about 7 times the normal dosage of Homochlorimide to keep him down, and 9 times the normal dosage for his brother, the one he called Sam. _Although,_ he thought to himself,_ he has already been sold, so it's not like he's my problem…_

He shrugged and went back down to the pens, to practice whipping.

Castiel shuddered as he watched the man leave. He could see in the Warden's mind how twisted and cruel his soul was, how it resembled a rat. He was filled with deep purple greed, amber-colored cruelty, velvet blue sadism. His soul was marred and stained, and Castiel had almost been unable to look at him. He had sworn to his Father to love humanity, but still…he didn't have to _like_ humanity that much.

Castiel returned to the present moment as his new slave- _Dean, his name is Dean_- moved hesitantly closer to him where he was holding open the door. The man didn't really seem to notice him, he seemed to enthralled with the fresh wind sweeping in.

His wide green eyes were fixed out the door, pupils shrunk to pinpricks in the unfamiliar light. Castiel noticed quite suddenly that his eyelashes were a very interesting shade near the roots, almost like buttered toast. Then Castiel noticed that his mouth was slightly open, and his pink lips were plump and perfectly shaped, and he wondered idly what that thing would be like, that humans used to do. Kissing? Yes, that was it.

The angel shook his head, alarmed at where his mind had taken him without his consent. There would be none of that in his house. He of course had heard the stories, of angels forcing their slaves to lay with them, and have children, but that had always appalled him.

Mind cleared, he straightened his shoulders (as if they needed straightening) and moved closer to Dean, putting a hand on his back and leading him out into the weak sunlight.

The drive back was uneventful. Dean fell asleep in the back seat, too exhausted to notice the San Francisco skyline whizzing past in the windows, everything soaked with rain. Castiel would have preferred to fly, but he had been notified that this human had a dislike for that mode of transport, and he had opted for a car instead.

It wasn't like the owner of the car was going to protest, anyway. The keys were in the ignition and the owner was long since dead.

Dean didn't wake while the old Camry bumped and jostled over the old roads, and he didn't wake when the car shut off in the driveway of Castiel's large house. He regained consciousness briefly when Castiel scooped him up from the backseat, unused to being carried, let alone so effortlessly by someone smaller than himself.

However, he didn't have the strength to care, and hardly felt the strangeness of it when the angel nestled him into the sheets of a bed upstairs. He noted vaguely that the sheets were light grey, and then he was gone again, lost in a swirling haze of rain-splotched concrete and clear blue eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**First off, I am SO sorry. I had thought Chapter Two had already posted, but it hadn't. It should be up now, but this chapter came to me in my medication-soaked fever. (I only had my wisdom teeth out, but I'm allowed to feel sorry for myself)**

**As always, reviews will remind me to post! :)**

3

When Dean awoke for the second time that day, he knew what was expected of him. He was not afraid, and he was not offended. The Homochlorimide in his veins took him too far away for that. No, he just knew with a certainty that it was time for the Claiming.

He rolled over, rumpling the grey sheets. They were very soft, he noticed. They felt very nice against his skin.

Sitting up, he pulled his white shirt over the back of his head and off, dropping it neatly beside him. He untangled his legs from the sheets and removed the rest of his clothing, then picked up the bundle and deposited it on one of the padded armchairs near the window. Dean was naked now, except for the collar. He supposed he'd better get used to that, though. It would never come off.

He squiggled his toes into the thick carpeting, relishing in the sensation of something soft and clean and purely pleasurable. It had been a long time since he had felt something like that.

He shook his head; his thoughts were still so slow and sludgy, like molasses trickling around in his mind. Dean forced himself back to his task, with great effort. It was time for the Claiming.

Dean clambered back onto the large bed, arranging the sheets carefully beneath him and pulling up the pillows again so they lay across the top of the bed neatly. He then arranged himself, placing limbs with exaggerated care, and spreading his legs.

Lastly, he found a hardcover book on the bedside table, and lobbed it across the room, making sure it thudded onto the hardwood floor. Downstairs, Castiel's head snapped up, and without planning to he was racing up the stairs, using his wings a bit to help him up.

He turned right at the top of the stairs and sprinted to the door of the room where he'd put Dean- _his_ room, really- and hesitated outside the heavy wood door. "Dean?" he called through, voice soaked with concern.

No answer from inside.

Cautiously, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. He nearly choked on his own tongue at what he saw inside.

The human Dean was inside, seemingly unharmed. He was lying across the large bed and he was completely naked, all of his skin on unabashed display. He had arranged himself on his knees, head bowed to the mattress toward the headboard, his hands clasped behind his back in complete submission.

Castiel had two immediate and warring reactions: first, he was aroused, a new sensation for him, and it hit him like a brick wall. For an instant he had no other desire than to take Dean, to push himself inside this human's strong body and mark him and make him irrevocably his own. He wanted to make Dean cry out his name in ecstasy and shudder as he claimed him.

But the other part of him, the strong, moral part, shrunk away from these images. He knew Dean was not himself, that the drugs given to him by the slavers had stripped away who he was, and that the real Dean would shrink from the lustful things that Castiel had yearned for. He knew it was wrong, so with all the power and steel inside him, he pulled his eyes away from the hard, muscled body of the human offering himself, and willed down the reaction of his own body.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he managed to choke out.

Dean hardly moved. "I am ready to be Claimed, Master."

A new wave of lust hit Castiel like a freight train. Feeling dizzy with the weight of it, he sputtered, "That is not necessary. Put your clothes back on."

Dean stayed where he was, unmoving. The angel closed his eyes, fortifying himself. He walked to the chair where Dean had deposited his clothing, and picked up the pile. He noticed that the shirt in particular was very low-quality, and the cotton was scratchy. He made an abrupt decision, and tossed the shirt into the bin in the corner.

Walking over to the wardrobe against the far wall, he pulled out a pair of boxers, and a soft grey tee, then he padded over to the bed again.

Castiel steeled himself, then reached out and touched Dean's shoulder, intending to help him up. He didn't get that far.

A burning white light erupted behind Dean's eyes, a high ringing echoing inside his head. It burned off the fog of the Homochlorimide, freeing his mind for the first time in ages. His shoulder was on fire, but elation was singing through his limbs. He was free! And he was not alone. That was the message of the light- _you are not alone. You are not alone. You are not alone. _Over and over in his head, repeated again and again- _you are not alone youarenotalone youarenotaloneyouarenotalone._

If was agony. Beautiful, to be sure, but still agony. He felt a tug at his soul, or at something, at the most basic part of himself, and then the sound of chains, and then silence.

Dean lifted his eyes (_so green_, Castiel thought) and saw Castiel clearly for the first time. His eyes widened, taking in the dark hair and stubble, and the blue eyes fixed worriedly on him. The new part of him, under the handprint burned into his shoulder, yearned to touch the angel. The rest of his body rebelled, and he flinched. Dean's handsome face twisted into a rictus of disgust, and he pushed himself away from the angel who suddenly feared that he might be intimately connected to the naked human in front of him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey lovelies! Sorry this one took so long- I know you don't care about excuses, but I'm just saying that 40+ hours at work and 30+ at school plus 10 for internships don't leave a lot of hours for things like eating/sleeping...not to mention writing.**

**Anyway, the more reviews the happier I am and the more likely that I'll remember to post 0_0**

Castiel stumbled quickly out of the room, his face and neck flushed red and his eyes wild. Unlike Dean, he knew exactly what had just happened, and it was not something he had planned for.

The angel had been rescuing humans for years. He'd adopt them, take them back to his estate to clear the chemicals from their veins and the fog from their minds, and then send them up north to a small ranch he owned in Montana.

Dean would have made the twenty-third human recovered, and although that wasn't much, it was something, and it made Castiel able to bear the tedium of his existence.

But he had never Claimed any of the other twenty-two. He had never experienced the urge to mate with them, or get children on any of the women. He had shuddered when he'd heard of other angels doing this, and when Balthazar had told him that one of their brothers referred to the humans as a "breeding ground"…he'd almost lost it.

Dean was different. He had never felt lust like this before in all his years on Earth. He'd never Claimed, even unintentionally. That, however, was exactly what had just happened. His hand touched Dean's shoulder and their souls had knit, fused together for all eternity. They were soulmates.

But the way Dean had glared at him when his mind cleared, so disgusted and hateful, made Castiel wish he had not touched the man and had just called his brother Gabriel in to help instead.

Castiel realized he was frozen in the middle of the stairwell, heart pounding, head aching and pants uncomfortably tight. He knew he had to control himself, but the process of the bond required physical completion, and he knew he would ache constantly until he got it.

_I shall endure_, he told himself. _I will not take advantage._ He knew he could though. He was an angel, with heavenly force at his disposal. His heart pounded a bit faster and he ran his hand over his face. He imagined pulling Dean's hands up and pinning him to the bed, face down and ass up on the bed, spread open wide just for him. _The human wouldn't mind it_, he told himself. _He might even like it_. _I could __**make**__ him like it…_

Castiel's head snapped back at the realization of what he had just been thinking. He would not do such a horrible thing. He would not change Dean's mind just to satisfy the yearning of his vessel. He was stronger than this traitorous flesh.

He started down the stairs again and shut himself in the library for the rest of the day. His staff would take care of the human. He should just stay away and try to calm his vessel, and soothe the roiling connection building in his Grace. He could feel it twisting and writhing, desperately trying to find the necessary connection to complete the link.

Castiel was not very productive that day.

Dean stood tense and rigid in the center of the bedroom, not sure exactly what to do with himself.

He was angry of course, and a large part of him wanted nothing more than to find the winged asshole who lived here and punch him until his hand broke or he passed out from sheer exhaustion.

But Dean was also scared, and embarrassed, and disgusted, and lost. He'd been in a haze for a long period of time, he wasn't even sure how long it had been. He felt pulled forward by his anger and held in place by everything else. Wavering back and forth, not sure what to do.

He just knew that he woke up in agony, with his naked ass in the air, an angel behind him and his shoulder on fire.

_Right, my shoulder._

He walked into the adjoining bathroom, still naked and barefoot, and turned sideways to see his arm clearly.

A bright red handprint stood out on his skin, angry-red and throbbing. His skin was paler than usual, he noticed.

Dean turned again and faced the mirror head-on, only now noticing the differences in his physique.

His hair was short, buzzed unevenly and with no care for his appearance. It made him look younger, like a dorky fifteen year old.

His cheekbones were more defined, his eyes hollow and shadowed. Haunted.

He moved his gaze down his body, cataloging the lack of muscle definition, smaller waistline, and some prominent joints sticking out that certainly hadn't looked like that before.

_Before. Shit. __**Sammy**__._

Dean let out a choked cry of anguish, feeling guilty that Sam hadn't been his first thought. Sammy had been sold, and they'd both been so clouded that he didn't know when, or to whom, or anything that might help him find Sam.

Because Dean knew he would find Sam. He would get out of here, and find his brother, and raise some more Hell. God knows that's what they did best.

But the tiniest bit of what Dean would flat-out deny was his soul was calling out for him to stay. It had a tenuous link to the angel downstairs and it tugged constantly, naggingly, for Dean to finish what he'd started when he was spread out on that bed.

It called out to him with its siren song: _claim me, take me, we are not alone._


End file.
